


By Nature Winged

by zuzeca



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Courtship, Doggy Style, Eroticized Trophallaxis, M/M, Other, Public Sex, Size Kink, Sticky Sex, Unusual Genitalia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 20:49:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/841235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zuzeca/pseuds/zuzeca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A most peculiar courtship occurs aboard the <i>Nemesis</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By Nature Winged

**Author's Note:**

> So apparently even when I'm not writing for _District 9_ I manage to cram bug sex in somewhere. Just a short piece of porn written for the kinkmeme, which turned out strangely romantic considering it involves giant robot space bugs. Link to the original prompt is [here](http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/10462.html?thread=10303454#t10303454). Enjoy. For the morbidly curious, my, er, inspiration for the Insecticon's rather unusual genital configuration was [this](http://158.83.1.40/Buckelew/images/Necator%20americanus%20male%20copulatory%20bursa%20fused%20spicules.jpg). Inaccurate, but I just couldn't in good conscience give him one of [these](http://www.insectman.us/images/beetle-genitalia.jpg). ;_;

“Not that I don’t appreciate the heavy infantry,” Speedtrap muttered, nervously eyeing two soldier-model Insecticons as they loped along the ceiling above them. “I mean, I haven’t lost more than three from my squadron in the last four orns. But frankly…they give me the creeps.”

Dragline made a noncommittal sound, fiddling with the mechanism of his arm cannon. Blasted thing had been grinding during transformation and he was out of spare oil. “Soldiers are soldiers.”

“Even when those soldiers are barely sentient science experiments? You have to have heard the rumors.”

“That they’re Shockwave’s creations? Scrap, half our forces have been under his welding iron at one point or another.”

“Even so…” Speedtrap trailed off. Up ahead, the two Insecticons had encountered one of their fellows, clearly damaged, limping down an adjoining corridor, and had leaped down to join it, buzzing and clicking amongst themselves. As they watched, one of the ceiling crawlers leaned forward, exterior and interior mandibles spread wide, and the injured Insecticon lifted its head. Four sets of mandibles linked and the plating of the crawler’s face split open, labra dividing and a narrow proboscis emerged, pressing into the open, eager mouth of the injured bot. A low, harmonious croon rose between the two linked Insecticons and as they shifted closer, secondary forelimbs grasping for each other, Dragline caught a glimpse of energon, gleaming as it passed through the bizarre siphon.

_They’re…feeding each other._

It was so bizzare, so shocking, so utterly _organic_ that it sent a weird, visceral surge through him, a wave of instinctive revulsion shot through with strange threads of curiosity. He’d never seen anything like it. How did it feel, to have that flexible tube inside you, pressing into your fuel tank? What would it taste like, energon taken from another’s body? Did it hurt? Was it, as the excited chirring seemed to indicate, pleasurable? 

Beside him Speedtrap made a low sound of disgust. Suddenly shamed by his thoughts, Dragline jerked his head in the direction of another branch of the corridor “Come on; let’s go this way.”

As he headed after the other bot, he couldn’t help a guilty glance back. The two Insecticons were still locked in their odd embrace, but the third, a massive soldier with welding scars winding across its broad forearms, was watching him.

Caught, he froze under the gaze, stiffening with embarrassment and no small amount of alarm. He shifted into a defensive posture and the transformation seams of his arm cannons flexed slightly, the right one grinding and squeaking. It was admittedly not an impressive display, but the message was clear.

_Not prey._

But the Insecticon made no move. There wasn’t even anything overtly hostile in its posture. It merely continued to watch Dragline, visor bright and mandibles clicking together in a manner which seemed thoughtful.

Shivering under the direct stare, he backed down the hall, holding the creature’s gaze for several long moments, before he broke off and hurried away.

 

He wasn’t given much time to worry over whether he’d somehow offended the Insecticon and whether or not he should expect to be torn apart by an angry swarm at any moment, thank the Allspark, because his squadron was immediately deployed to an energon mine which had been uncovered on a large landmass to the south of them. And just in time for this part of planet to begin its apparently annual cycle of dumping bucketloads of liquid dihydrogen monoxide from the sky, lucky them. The next two orns consisted primarily of mud, water, crawling organics, more mud, fruitless attempts to get Rodcap and Alternator to stop hurling the mud every which way, and general bullying and pleading with his uncooperative team. By the time they summoned the _Nemesis_ for pickup he was dead tired and Solenoid was threatening him with disembowelment if the tiny chitinous organics didn’t come out of his joints properly. All he wanted was a cube, a washrack, and his own berth, not necessarily in that order. 

And then the Autobots showed up.

Dragline wasn’t even sure what it was they wanted. The mine was clicks away from the nearest human habitation, so he doubted they were trying to defend the fleshlings. Then again, his team was the only one guarding this particular mine, which made it a prime target for a raid.

“Hold your position!” he bellowed, ducking behind a rock as blaster fire streaked by him. “What’s the ETA on our backup?”

“Ten clicks,” Bracket said calmly, popping up from behind cover to snipe at one of the Autobots.

“Ten clicks? Are Tiltwing’s slagging engines broken?”

“Arial units are deployed in the opposite hemisphere,” Bracket said. “The _Nemesis_ is coming herself. Faster to drop in ground units that way.”

“We’re not going to last ten clicks!” Connector had already been offlined, and Rodcap’s weapons, not mention a good chunk of the rest of him, had been damaged by an Autobot blaster. Alternator and Solenoid were still gamely taking shots, but they were pinned down by the big green bruiser and wouldn’t be able to hold him off forever.

“Blow the mine?” Bracket suggested, lining up another shot.

Dragline hesitated. Protocol stated that it was better to destroy resources than allow them to fall into enemy hands, but to do so would effectively render orns of work void. And there were miners still inside, waiting for the Autobots with energon drills as improvised weapons, who would be killed by the blast.

“Negative,” he snarled, angry at his own internal conflict over the matter. “Resource cost is too high. We hold them off as long as possible and hope that Speedtrap and his team can get here soon.”

Bracket shrugged and cocked his head briefly, “We may not have to wait that long. Listen.”

“What are you—” Dragline broke off because he could suddenly hear it. Not the dull roar of flight engines, but the rapid, continuous buzzing of beating wings.

An Insecticon burst above the treeline, screaming down towards them in a dive. Dragline recognized the maneuver, had seen the fliers perform it a million times on drills.

“Pull back!” he shouted. “Into the mine!” Dragging Rodcap upright, he snapped at Bracket, “Cover me,” and made for the entrance.

They barely made it within the safety of the rocks when the explosions began. The Insecticon had pulled out of its dive abruptly and was strafing the Autobots, blasters firing as they dived for cover.

Alternator let out a whoop, “Look at ‘im go!”

“Don’t stand there like your engines are rusted, you slaggers!” Dragline said. “Give him some cover fire!” Leveling his cannon, he let off a shot at the yellow scout, who dodged out of the way. Wincing as mechanisms ground painfully, he snapped at Bracket, “Update.”

“ _Nemesis_ ETA is two clicks.”

“There!” said Solenoid, pointing towards the grey and pouring sky. Like a black dust cloud on the horizon, a swarm of Insecticons was descending, the distant shadow of the _Nemesis_ in their wake.

The Autobots apparently decided that a miniature armada of Insecticons plus a fully armed Decepticon warship was too much for them, because there was the green, blinding flash of an activated groundbridge and then suddenly the clearing was empty. The lead Insecticon circled and landed, transforming as it did so. Shaking out its joints, it loosed a high, eerie cry, which was taken up by its fellows as they dropped to join it. 

“Theatrics,” Bracket commented, but there was an edge of amusement in his tone.

Dragline snorted, “Come on, leave it. We’ve got two orn worth of high grade rations built up, and I’m beginning to think I’d trade mine for a washrack” Above them, the _Nemesis_ was positioning herself, lift descending, and workers were beginning to scamper out from the depths of the mine with their loads of energon, “Let’s get out of here.”

As they passed the mob of Insecticons on the way towards the lift, the creature who’d led the charge lifted its head, catching his optic and he felt a jolt of recognition.

It was the watcher from the hall, scars gleaming silver even in the dim light from the overcast sky. 

He snapped his optic visor forward and refused to look back. 

 

It was just his luck, Dragline thought wearily, that he would have survived an Autobot raid unscathed, without backup mind you, only to get slagged on a routine patrol.

“Gyro’s cracked,” Knockout announced, setting aside his welder. “But not slagged badly enough for a replacement. I’ve patched your energon lines and autorepair will take care of the gyro. Refuel and recharge; you’ve got three cycles leave. Now move along.”

Stumbling from the medbay, he braced himself against the wall, sliding down into a seated position. The cracked gyro left him unable to stabilize himself and the floor seemed to buck and lurch beneath him. 

_No room for weakness, just get yourself to the mess, and then to your room._

The two locations were of course, he recalled too late, at opposite ends of the ship. Offshift cycle was well advanced and the decks were empty. His fuel pump churned, and a low energy warning flashed through his processor. The hall suddenly seemed impossibly long.

_I…I can’t._

He offlined his optics, a low, involuntary whine escaping him.

A skitter of metal on metal startled him and he jerked his head up, optics flashing online and his processor reeled in protest at the sudden change in position. An Insecticon hung above him, claws holding it fast to the ceiling. For several long moments they stared at each other. 

Unease pricked him, “What do you want?”

The Insecticon cocked its head and didn’t answer. It did however, begin to descend, joints shifting in impossible ways to stabilize it as it crawled down the wall. Straightening, it approached him, and he caught a glimpse of scars in the dim light.

He clenched his fists and suppressed the urge to cower as it loomed over him. He might be smaller, but he’d be slagged before he went down without a fight.

The Insecticon bent near, mandibles spreading, the strange appendages stretching out until they nearly brushed his face. Pausing, it waited, mandibles flexing slightly, watching him.

Dragline was frozen, he would have to have been glitched not to recognize the posture, the intent, but he couldn’t, _couldn’t_ be reading it right. And yet, this close, he could hear the swish of the Insecticon’s fuel pump, the beat of its spark. Further, he could feel its energy field, bumping and brushing against his own, powerful and fierce, yet utterly non-threatening.

It was crazy, but he raised a shaking hand and ran his fingers down the curve of one mandible.

The Insecticon purred and its mouth split, labra unfolding. It leaned closer and its exterior mandibles closed around his head, hooking into seams in the metal to hold him in place. The interior mandibles slipped against him, grasping in brief instinctive motion for a second set of appendages which he didn’t have, before subsiding and the same tube he’d seen before protruded from its gaping mouth.

Some absurdly practical part of him expressed doubt that they could even manage this. He didn’t have a proper mouth after all, just a vestigial intake. But the Insecticon guided the thin siphon into the narrow opening with stunning precision.

He jerked slightly as it entered him, sensors flooding him with unfamiliar data, and he clutched helplessly at the Insecticon’s forearms, his claws scratching faint weals in the metal. It was far longer than it appeared, invading him in a way which edged on discomfort and he couldn’t suppress a faint whimper.

The Insecticon’s energy field rippled soothingly and it gave a low rumble. The vibrations reverberated through Dragline’s chassis, buzzing against his spark chamber and the unexpected wave of pleasure made him gasp.

And then energon began to pour into him.

_Oh._

It was like nothing he’d ever felt before; the hot flow sent a sudden infusion of charge flooding him, overwhelming his circuits and overcharging him within a moment. Even the taste was different, a heady, syrupy flavor with notes of metal alloys. The Insecticon was crooning, the same sounds that he’d heard from the embracing pair before, resonating against his internals and he moaned, valve priming itself behind his interface hatch.

He wasn’t sure how long it went on, only that suddenly his tank was full and the Insecticon was withdrawing, mandibles releasing his face. He shivered, overcharged processor reeling and the Insecticon stroked his sides gently with its secondary limbs.

Time seemed fluid, but he was aware of the Insecticon scooping him up as though he weighed nothing at all, tucking him against one broad shoulder. Its energy field flickered with expectation.

“Deck…deck three,” he said, finally realizing what it wanted. The sound of his own voice startled him, “Room four hundred and two.”

The creature set off swiftly. Clutching at its shoulder guard he could feel the shift of huge pistons, powerful servos moving. The combination of excess charge and his cracked gyro left him giddy and dizzy and made his tank shift in an unpleasant way.

“Er, not to be rude, but you’re not going to slag me if I purge all over you, are you?”

It also apparently rendered him incapable of keeping control of his vocalizer.

The Insecticon rumbled with amusement, but slowed its pace. At last it brought him to his door and even waited patiently as Dragline repeatedly tried and failed to enter his key code correctly. Finally the door slid open and he staggered the few steps to his berth. Flopping across it, he stared back at the behemoth creature, unable to fit through the cabin door. Should he say something?

The Insecticon regarded him evenly for a moment before it vanished from sight as his door slid shut.

“Thank you—” he began belatedly, before cutting himself off. He didn’t know why the Insecticon had done what it did, but his processor ached too much to think it over. Offlining his visor, he allowed himself to slip into recharge.

 

He onlined sometime later and checked his scrambled chronometer. He’d been out for fifteen breems, but his tank was still mostly full. Already his processor was clearer and his damaged gyro no longer sent waves of dizziness through him when he tried to sit up. A residual damage report strongly recommended not straining it in battle or transformation, but he was well on the road to recovery. Rolling himself upright, he stared dully around his berthroom. Speedtrap’s berth was empty; probably off on a mission or in the mess.

As he shifted, his foot bumped against something tucked under his berth, jammed against his storage boxes, as though it had been awkwardly shoved there. Puzzled, he bent over, slowly so as not to strain his gyro, and groped for the object.

A maintenance kit, he was startled to see. Not new, the black casing bore dents and scratches aplenty, but when he opened it he found it fully stocked: a block of wax, good quality by the shade of it, a handful of small brushes for detailing work, a square of mesh for buffing.

And a full bottle of oil.

For a time he could only stare at it, uncomprehending. Had Speedtrap left it for him? He always seemed to be able to get his servos on high grade or wax or the dozen other little accoutrements which were in short supply. But then practicality kicked in and he popped the lid. Ultimately it was irrelevant who had left or lost it. Shifting his right cannon through a partial transformation, he directed a fine stream of oil into the seams. He waited a few moments, allowing the oil to trickle through his components, before transforming it completely. Plating moved smoothly, gears no longer grinding and he felt the sudden absence of discomfort in a way which was almost as acute as pain.

He was in working order, mostly, he had a fully stocked maintenance kit for the first time in vorns, and he still had a cycle and a half of leave.

_Slag it all, I’m going for a wash._

 

The washracks were blessedly empty. Often they were swarming with troops, but it appeared that he’d have them to himself this cycle. He didn’t question his good luck, even if he felt a brief disappointment that there wasn’t anyone he could swap a buffing with. It was far easier than buffing your own plating and even if not everyone was willing to do it, his new block of wax would make an enticing lure.

Somewhere in the labyrinth of racks, a spout switched on.

He locked up, startled. He hadn’t heard anyone, any voices or footsteps. It didn’t matter really, he could choose another rack.

Yet some part of him pricked in curiosity and he found himself creeping forward, further into the rows of racks, peering around a dividing wall.

The Insecticon stood beneath the spray of solvent, plating flexed open to allow the cleansing liquid to flow over its internal components. He caught a glimpse of pistons and actuators, thick cables, precision machinery, built for strength and speed, perfectly designed.

_Science experiment or not, Shockwave knew what he was doing._

The wave of desire that rippled through his spark shocked him. He wasn’t a new protoform anymore, hungry for the novelty of interface, but all he wanted to do was touch, to feel those mechanisms against his chassis again. He was keenly aware of how long it had been since he’d bothered to track down a partner; Speedtrap was currently banging Tiltwing and Dragline had felt it too much trouble to court anyone else.

It was then that he realized that the Insecticon was watching him. 

Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. Biting back his embarrassment and unease, he lifted the maintenance kit, holding it forth like a shield or a peace offering and blurted, “Want a buff?”

_I don’t think I’ve ever used a worse line. Somewhere, Speedtrap is laughing his slagging head off._

But the Insecticon merely shifted, making room for him under the spray. Spark pounding, he joined the creature, tentatively flexing open his own plating. Solvent flowed over him; pleasant and cool, sweeping away some of the heat from his internals as it removed dirt and grime. This close, he was keenly aware that he only barely came up past the Insecticon’s middle. On the bright side, he was in the position to obliquely eye the creature’s interface hatch. Or at least where its interface hatch _should_ be, the strange tessellation of metal plates looked unfamiliar.

_This is going to be interesting, to say the least. I wonder what he’s packing under there?_

The thought that the creature was at minimum proportional should have made him reconsider, but it only sent a wave of heat through him, his valve cycling in response. The Insecticon must have detected the spike of arousal in his energy field, but it ignored it, instead shutting off the flow of solvent, the remaining drops falling to swirl about the drain. Turning, the creature reached for the maintenance kit and flipped it open.

_Guess he took me seriously about the buffing. Oh well, I suppose we could both use it._ Surprising himself with his own boldness, he reached past the Insecticon and grabbed the block of wax and the mesh square from the kit. Glancing up at the creature, he raised his tools and said, “Well?”

A vague flicker of amusement in the Insecticon’s field, but it crouched obediently, allowing him to reach the huge elytra which guarded its wings. Dragline went to work.

It was a surprisingly soothing task. The Insecticon’s field pulsed in comforting waves and Dragline soon found a rhythm to his buffing. As he rubbed across the pitted surface of one elytron, making small circles to remove the scratches, he said “You know, I don’t think you ever told me your designation.”

He didn’t expect a reply, but then a deep voice, edged in a strange, organic growl, answered him, “I am Sheathwing.”

Strangely elated by the response, he continued to work the mesh against the surface, “Dragline.”

The wax was good quality, filling in the small gouges, smoothing out the surface. The consistency was denser than he was used to as well, almost as if it had been designed for a flier rather than a…

He paused, hand stilling against the Insecticon’s side, “You left this, didn’t you?” The pieces began to fall into place, the energon, the kit, slag, even the rescue. Backup or no, Sheathwing would have had to have left as soon as their distress call came in, to come as quickly as he had.

He was being…courted.

Sheathwing stared at him steadily and did not answer.

He could think of nothing to say. He’d never been the object of such attention. He was known as a pleasant enough frag, but it wasn’t as if they were lining up at his door. Why would the Insecticon go through the trouble? He was no one, the leader of a squadron of interchangeable grunts. Unconcerned, Sheathwing turned and, with an almost absurd delicacy, plucked the mesh and wax from his nerveless fingers and began to buff him in return, allowing his energy field to expand, to envelop Dragline. And for the first time he felt it, a molten wave of arousal. Sheathwing _wanted_ , wanted him, Primus knew why, but slag if it didn’t rev him like nothing else ever had. He cycled his vents, shaky. 

“So,” he said. “Your room, or mine?”

Sheathwing smiled.

 

The Insecticons had turned one of the unused energon storage rooms into an impromptu hive, utilizing the shelves lining the large room as berths. Sheathwing’s was near the top, a strip of metal just wide enough to fit two Insecticons comfortably. Dragline gripped Sheathwing’s shoulder guards and tried not to think of how patently ridiculous he must look, clinging to the Insecticon’s back as he climbed the wall with stunning agility.

It was even darker inside the hive than the rest of the ship, but bright orange visors onlined as they passed, gleaming in the shadows and he heard the interested click of mandibles. Each Insecticon might have had its own shelf, but it wasn’t as though anything like walls existed between them and he was uncomfortably aware of the sudden, collective gaze turned on him.

Sheathwing swung up onto the ledge of his own berth and crouched to let him climb down. Straightening, he glanced around nervously.

“Dragline.”

He’d never heard his designation spoken in such a way, a possessive growl which made him shudder with desire. Sheathwing loomed over him, visor bright with heat. Shivering, he tried to ignore the distant buzz of other energy fields and kneel, but ended up sprawling awkwardly on his back.

Sheathwing dropped down on all fours, heavy forearms planted by his head. He stared up, mesmerized as the Insecticon bent and caressed the plating of his face with his mandibles, like a mimicry of the feeding and the memory of it, deep and intimate, was enough to open Dragline’s interface hatch, his spike pressurizing and valve cycling, calipers rippling as they tried to grasp at air.

“Please,” he gasped.

Sheathwing purred and opened his own plating.

_Oh, Primus._

The Insecticon’s interface hatch didn’t slide apart to reveal his equipment. Instead the tessellated metal unfolded, the sides spreading out and flattening to form an inverted hood. His spike, an enormous ridged affair stippled with sensor nodes, pressurized, sliding out from the center, and twin rows of long hooks rose from the sides of the hood, shifting in a manner which told Dragline exactly where they were intended to go. 

The thought was both terrifying and also kind of a turn on. 

Gulping, he spread his legs further and waited.

But Sheathwing didn’t fall on him with that bizzare, terrifying spike. Instead he let out a puzzled, frustrated sound, and tried to turn Dragline.

“What—?”

Yet even as he asked, he realized. The strange, cupped orientation of Sheathwing’s interface equipment probably made it difficult or impossible to interface face to face. Shaking, he shifted himself up on his elbows, Sheathwing backing up to give him room, and rolled, pulling himself up on his knees.

He felt the heat of the Insecticon at his back, mandibles grasping at his neck and those small, secondary limbs slid around his chassis, holding him gently as Sheathwing shifted him into position and the strange hood covered the back of his pelvic plating. Several slight pricks as the hooks found holds in the edges of his armor and then that massive spike was pressing inside him.

Dragline gasped and clawed at the floor. He’d been primed for joors at this point, so it didn’t hurt too badly, but oh Primus was it full.

“Sheathwing,” he moaned. 

Sheathwing growled and thrust into him, mandibles tightening just a bit, and a surge of current from his sensor-rich spike sparked across Dragline’s nodes and sent his processor reeling. The edge of overload flickered, close enough to taste, and he cried out, hands flexing restlessly. He wanted to touch his partner, but their position made it almost impossible. Stretching his arms out, he grasped at the Insecticon’s hands, his own tiny fingers sliding between the enormous, curved claws. 

Sheathwing purred in approval and the vibrations against his chassis wrung another cry from him. Secondary limbs hiked him up further, changing the angle, opening up new sensors and he overloaded, convulsing in the Insecticon’s grip.

Sagging, he hung limp from Sheathwing’s limbs and mandibles as the Insecticon continued to thrust into him, stroking against still sensitive nodes until at last he jerked and froze, letting out that same eerie cry he’d made on the battlefield as he pressed in tight and Dragline felt a flood of lubricant inside him.

Slowly Sheathwing eased them down, shifting onto his side so as not to crush Dragline. His hooks were still engaged, Dragline could feel them tugging at his plating, holding them snug, keeping his spike inside, but he couldn’t bring himself to be bothered by it. Sheathwing rumbled soothingly and stroked his chassis.

Exhaustion tugged at Dragline, but he fought it, cupping his hand over the stroking claws. He still didn’t know what the Insecticon’s intentions were, but a small, treacherously optimistic part of him hoped that Sheathwing would not have gone through so much trouble for the sake of a brief fling with a groundtrooper. 

Sheathwing must have detected something in his energy field, because he pulled Dragline closer, mandibles caressing the thin projections of his antennae and tucked his clawed hand beneath his chin, urging him to lift his head. Dragline’s optics had begun to adjust and he stared curiously into the darkness. Above them, a sheer wall rose, broken only by the shelves, occupied by Insecticons, and…

A maintenance ladder.

Which led, he realized, to a maintenance hatch, embedded in the ceiling of the storage room. Which was located on deck four, towards the aft-starboard end of the ship. Which placed it right under…

_Four hundred hall. That slagging sneaky glitch. He planned this whole thing._

In Decepticon terms, it was practically a proposal.

Strangely cheered, he nestled back against Sheathwing, “Wake me next onshift cycle, will you? I’ve got patrol.”

The Insecticon rumbled approvingly.


End file.
